


Take

by honeydewed



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Ophilia Clement/Therion - Freeform, Ophilia/Therion - Freeform, The gloves are off and the scarf is down, This is my eighth story in this series so I put a lot of effort into it, hand holding, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 18:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18997963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydewed/pseuds/honeydewed
Summary: A story about give and take in spring.





	Take

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Octopath Traveler. I don't own these characters. No spoilers. You don't have to read my other two Ophilia/Therion fics to know what's going on here but if you're hungry for that content they do it exist! Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Spring heralds a hopeful promise to Orsterra. The green scent of newly sprouted grass pushing up and out of the once black earth of winter intermingled with freshly budded flowers hearken the arrival of the new season. As the party descends the mountains closer and closer to Clearbrook Alfyn's the first to truly appreciate spring. "It's flower picking season!" he announces merrily as he turns to his companions, his green vest billowing with the turn as the sun coaxes forth his smile. Alfyn promises all of them there's no place like Clearbrook when spring sweeps in!

Upon arriving in Clearbrook Cyrus immediately shuts himself in from the fine weather. Apothecaries often travel and as they roam they ferry their secrets with them. It's rare for Cyrus to learn from them but a small private library cultivated by Zeph's late father holds a treasure trove of knowledge. He coughs either from breathing in the pollen all day or the dust from the books. The notes Alfyn takes are messy. Pressed flowers, sketches, thoughts, and feelings all line the field books Alfyn dutifully keeps. Zeph's young sister Nina decides to stay inside as well making herself comfortable at the professor's side and begging him to tell her of Noblecourt and the Princess Mary.

Tressa sets up shop the moment she steps into town. Poking about searching for deals and tempting natives of Clearbrook into purchasing one of her treasures. They're exotic wares from all corners of the continent and surely some must be looking for a home in Clearbrook!

The tavern owner's fair daughter left on a personal quest on the same day Alfyn departed. Alfyn and Zeph were the tavern's best customers and the absence of their liveliest customers and loveliest server makes the clientele wane. However, the sight of a gorgeous dancer jingling towards the tavern with the promise of a show lures locals back in to fill the seats. A few heard tales of a girl that dances with the grace of a goddess, and they're honored to behold her.

Sir Olbreic travels with the throng for a tankard of mead. Primrose teases him all the while.

The lush forest calls out to dear Linde. After besting a few men in town, H'annit takes her leave careful promising she won't tarry close to the caverns full of venomous snakes.

Alfyn rushes to Zeph the moment he crosses the bridge leading into town. Zeph's firm arms catch him and wrap around his wayward friend like vines around a tree. Laughter bubbles up from the two and they knock foreheads with one another like little kids testing their horns. Foraging with Zeph is a hobby Alfyn dearly misses but he'd be sorry to not watch Primrose dance and buy some ale for his best friend.

Ophilia steps forward clearing her throat to relieve them of their conundrum between having fun and being dutiful. Sister Ophilia politely offers to gather any plants Alfyn might need so they can enjoy themselves. Undoubtedly, they'll both need to be carted into Alfyn's home and dumped where Nina can't see them making utter fools of themselves. At the offer the smile that stretches across Alf's face puts the warm spring shun to shame. Zeph's hands dart into the depths of his satchel as he finds his book and quickly sketches a flower. Alfyn thumbs through his favorite book to offer a pretty pressed flower for reference. Both men warn her to keep away from the caves! Alfyn jots down some instructions leading to a location of a flower patch that will undoubtedly be in bloom. Zeph rushes to his home for a basket only to return breathless and holding it out to Ophilia. She nestles the paper at the bottom and puts her pressed flower atop it.

Everpromise flowers are versatile tools for apothecaries. The blooms are pure white covering the ground in clusters like patches of snow refusing to melt. The centers are a deep cornflower blue and the petals curl at the edge like irises. They only bloom at the beginning of spring, they're the first flowers to sprout and the last ones to leave before summer comes.

"Only a basket," Alfyn warns as his arm hooks around Zeph's familiar shoulder. "And be back before dark."

"Thank you again so much, Sister," Zeph's eyes sparkle.

Their gratitude is a fine payment. Ophilia's certain the moment she turns her back they'll make a beeline to the tavern.

The venture will be a solitary one. Not nearly as important as the Kindling but it will grand her a moment to reflect. She thinks until she realizes she's not alone. Hovering close to her heels like a shadow is a familiar presence. "Must you lurk so?" Ophilia casts a doe-eyed glance over her shoulder down the path behind her. Footfalls near quiet as a cat become a fraction louder. Therion's made himself known now. "If you wished to accompany me, you need only ask," her welcoming expression goads him forward. They're to go straight until the river sprouts a stream and it turns right, beyond it is a patch of the ever promise flowers.

Therion doesn't walk with many people behind him.

However, if there's anyone he's sure won't stab him it will be Sister Ophilia. Striding before her with little more than a mere passing glance he stares out into the woods to guide the pilgrim. The tavern will be loud with Primrose entertaining. Olberic becomes even more boisterous somehow when he drinks and has a habit of swatting the thief's back as he laughs just a little too loudly. Tressa's jovial barking about items bore him and she chastises him if she catches him eyeing her customers. H'annit will want a quiet moment with Linde and he can't blame her or the giant cat. If he listens to Cyrus delve into another lecture he'll undoubtedly fall asleep.

He tells himself he's only with Ophilia because at present she's the least annoying person to be around. The river breaks from its regular current into a thin stream winding into the lush woods and he marvels briefly certain it's the same river that's in the deep caverns by Bolderfall.

Bolderfall's covered in a fine layer of dust like the town itself can't fully shake the filth and grime from within its core. Spoiled nobles lounge in luxury in the heavens high atop the cliffs surrounded by wrought iron fences and near impassable security. They make the eagles their neighbors and because they're physically above the rabble seem to think they are above them.

Lower born citizens become more dangerous the farther down the cliff one descended. Hiding in the crevices and shadows preparing to strike. The sun itself has trouble permeating the underbelly of Bolderfall.

Gutters from highborn houses send debris and garbage into the near endless trench at the bottom of the cliffs. Does any of it end up in the river? he wonders. The water's so clear and crisp. The old scarf wrapped around him keeps out the stench of Bolderfall's streets until that fateful day he ascended to the highest cliff to behold Ravus Manor he almost forgot how much easier it was to breathe outside Bolderfall. Nimble fingers hook into his scarf as he draws it down, just a fraction. His nose pokes from his scarf and he breathes in the fresh air. Dust is the only scent Therion can compare Bolderfal too, but as he breathes in he smells spring.

Spring's a distant dream in the Frostlands. Snow covers Flamesgrace, smothering it like dust on an old mantlepiece. It makes the world white, shine with ice, and only the sturdiest of plants send their roots into the near permanently frosted ground. The sparse sunlight that breaks through the gray clouds and dreary sky make the land glisten and twinkle. She'd seen icicles sharp as crystals shining like diamonds in the town at her window. The snow makes everything clean or rather it holds up that appearance.

There's an ugliness to snow. The smell of it is leaves rotting beneath the wet frost. Anything not strong enough to survive flickers out and is buried. The sinners, the saints, and everybody between aren't pardoned by the cold. It's a harsh reality but it makes the hearth warmer and the company the same. Ophilia can't recall her home before finding it with His Excellency and Lianna but she's sure it wasn't as warm.

Ophilia breathes in. Reverently she admires the greenery before her. The coniferous trees twist high into the sky like the spires of a cathedral. The rush of wind toys with her cloak before sailing down the river water, making ripples, and weaving through the tall grass. Smoke, decay, and water are the only scents she can liken Flamesgrace to, but as she breathes in she smells the spring.

"It's beautiful," she chirps as she draws closer to Therion's side careful to stay on the side his visible eye is on. "Alfyn was right, it's gorgeous here. Have you ever seen such a wonderful place?"

"No," he answers honestly as he adjusts his pace so he's only a step before her.

"Therion," she's dropped a title before his name for now they've been traveling companions long enough they're friends. Beyond dear Lianna she's never had friends and calling anyone by a formal title save for sweet Sir Olberic and crafty Professor Cyrus is unthinkable! She watches his lavender shoulders as he stalks through the tall grass, "Pray might I ask you a question?"

"What's the question?" the bitterness to his voice doesn't surface as often on her company. He studies the stream's bed seeing the once proud stones made smooth. The coldness to his throat's melted like snow. It's not warm, not yet, but the first dawn of spring never is. "Unless, that was the question."

The stream's still on the straight and narrow. Biting her lip her blunt teeth roll over her lower lip hesitantly. Toying with her staff she asks quickly, "Do you ever regret taking anything?" The words surface so quickly they're practically a single word. "Stealing, I mean," it's so harsh saying it aloud like that! "I mean," she attempts to focus on anything else, the weight of the empty basket hanging from the crook of her arm, the song of a bird she can't identify, Therion's quiet footsteps. "Do you ever think about who you took it from?" she's asked so much already she can't stop now. "Or if it's dear to them?" Her eyebrows knit towards each other, "Forgive me, my intention isn't to pry. I'm merely curious."

Hidden in the breast pocket beneath his poncho is a handkerchief. Blue with white flowers decorating the edges. It one smelled of flowers and apples but the scent's since faded. "No."

"Not even a little bit?" she pries despite previously insisting that's not her intention.

On occasion, while walking he'll run his thumb over the embroidery of the handkerchief. His good eye finds her and he says again, "No."

The mere thought of stealing outside of survival turns her stomach and twists it in knots! After being orphaned she attempted to steal food once, but the guilt ate at her before the hunger did. She did manage to steal a loaf of bread once but before she took a bite she returned it with a silent apology and tears in her eyes. The honorable act lead her towards His Excellency.

The stream's begun to turn and effortlessly Therion leaps from one rocky bank to the other. Reaching behind him without looking he holds his hand out, palm towards the sky like a beggar asking for alms. Ophilia's dainty gloved hand fits into his and she hops over the stream. Steady on the other side she prepared to draw away from him.

Therion's nose and eye tilt towards Ophilia. A bandaged thumb runs across the joints of her fingers once, the touch so deft and feather-light she's almost uncertain he did it at all. "My only regrets," Therion says plainly. "Are if I didn't take something when I wanted it." The wind tussles the grass and the waters bubbles behind them. "There's nothing worse than seeing something you want and not getting it," releasing her hand she nods. Scurrying from him following a mildly trodden path in the treeline he stays by the water. An eye that's been green since the day he was born study her form. They must have been green because he'd always been greedy, always envious. The Fool's Bangle weighs his arm down. He feels like a wolf stalking in the woods, hungry and pondering the flavor of her lips. It isn't his stomach that wants to be satisfied and the bitter taste of regret fills his mouth. If he wants anything in the world he's the one that must take it. Coveting something is a worse action than not taking it.

Ophilia, of course, isn't an object, she isn't something he can take, and he finds himself wanting something he can't merely scoop into his pockets and protect beneath his cloak. "Oh!" the cheerful coo lifts his eye further to take her in. The flowers sprout passed her ankles, a circle of trees make a gap that illuminates a near-perfect rounded patch of flowers to sprout within. Examining the paper lining the bottom of her basket she sets her staff down. Therion leans against a tree crossing his arms as Ophilia kneels into the earth. Tugging the flowers free from the ground she breathes in the sweet scent. It's light and airy like baby's-breath but wilder. "Have you thought perhaps you can merely ask someone for something?" Dark eyes study him and she smiles, "Most people will help their brethren if given the option to first." Aelfric's ember glistens agreeably at her hip.

Therion pictures her as a child imagining a cherub's face with quivering lips requesting a stale crust of bread. Still honorable, he muses, like an angel disguised in rags. It's a stark contrast from himself as a child. He'd been small then, reed-like and dirty. Ill-tempered and coarse from the moment he began to talk with words as sharp as knives. "I think you have too much faith in people," he muses. Ophilia must have bloomed in the world one day gracing the world with her presence. He merely jut out unasked and prickly as a cactus. Therion prepares to say no one's ever done anything for him but that isn't true anymore is it? Cyrus often joins his side while summoning fire and casting infernos unto hapless enemies. Tressa detests thieves yet she shares her hard earned leaves with the party, him included. Olberic's leaped out before him to take the brunt of an attack and acts as a shield all while smiling. Primrose inspirits him and fills him with power while she twists and twirls like the desert sands. H'annit defends all mankind. Even Linde nuzzles against him. When he retreats to quiet corners the great cat will seek him if H'annit is busy. Linde rests her great head in his lap as he strokes at her fur and he swears she kneads like a house cat.

Even Sister Ophilia who should spurn his company, condemn him for his work, and revoke any kindness from him does things for him. She slices apples into rabbits and shares her spoils with him. She reflects danger and heals him when he's injured. She cares deeply and wholly. His ears heat at the memory of her staying up all night with him because he caught a chill. She sings to him. Ophilia talks to him. She even trusts him, which is a foolish thing to do on her part.

Sister Ophilia floods his world with light.

"There's no shame in asking," Ophilia fills the basket. It's overflowing with flowers! Ophilia's confident that's enough. "There's only shame in an unasked question," she nods and Therion decides she's spent too much time with Cyrus. "You're quiet," she comments. "Is something on your mind?"

If Aelfric truly exists he's certain the god will strike him down. "You say you just ask somebody to do something, they'll do it?" he asks a little too quickly as he decides there's no turning back from asking now.

"Provided no harm should come unto their person, they're not obliged to harm another, or it's something they feel comfortable with," Sister Ophilia lists off the stipulations gloved fingertips tapping one another.

"Take off your gloves."

Fingers curl and press atop her chest as she runs over the request. "Pardon me? You wish for me to-"

"Take off your gloves," he repeats as he strides over and sinks to his knees. At her level among the grass and dirt, he summons up the one word he knows will compel her to do it, "Please." Warmth seeps into his tone like the sunlight hitting an icicle. If he didn't think this was seriously important he might have bat his eye and added a "pretty" before the "please".

He did ask, Ophilia reasons. The buckles higher up on Ophilia's gloves keep them tight on her arms. Unfastening them she begins to tug at her fingertips drawing the dark leather gloves farther and farther down her arms. The pristine white fabric of her dress stretches on towards her wrist and without the thicker padding of the leather looks somehow even daintier than Therion anticipated. Her left hand's free and glove's set off to the side. Repeating the same process with her other hand feels even slower than before. Ophilia's wrists are thin, made all the more slender by her sleeves. The sleeves have the same hint of blue as her dress along the cuff. Her fingers are thin and the nails are cut far shorter than he expected them to be. A freckle dots her right knuckle and she flexes her fingers a few times feeling unconfined. It's been some time since her hands were out in the open air. 

"You're saying if one wants something they simply must take it?" she tugs a final flower from the earth. Running her fingers along the green stem as she tucks it into the basket with the others. "Without hesitation? Without regret? One need only see what they want and take it?"

"Yes," he hardly has time to say anything after that. Ophilia's fingers hook into his scarf but instead of drawing it down she keeps it in place. Holding it there as her warm fingers press against his flesh. He can't breathe, not because she's suffocating him, but because she's knocked the air straight from his lungs.

"There's something I've been meaning to steal," Ophilia confesses as she leans forward. Pressing her knees further into the dirt she draws closer to him. His breath smells like apples, she can't remember him buying any or anybody purchasing them as of late. She'll have to admonish him later but for now, there's been something she's wanted to take. She's been holding her breath too and unconsciously he breathes out when he hears her do the same. It's sudden, like a bolt of lightning or that brief moment one touches a hot pan only to recoil their hand. The warmth of her mouth seeps through the fabric of his scarf like the sun making puddles of ice. She presses her lips where she believes his mouth to be and she's only just off the mark. Plump lips capture his upper lip and space between his nose. Her eyes close but his widen as he waits for her god to smite him on the spot, for surely he must for converting his most loyal pilgrim into a thief.

She's stolen a kiss.

With a shaky breath, she draws away all too soon. Tugging down the fabric passed his chin it pools atop his heavy shoulders. His eyes have to be as big as hers now which how much they've widened! Few people ever saw his face in full. It's a plain-looking face with a sharp-pointed nose and square chin. It's nothing to write home about but Ophilia beholds him in the same way one admires art or something precious. Her fingers remain hooked into his purple scarf like fate itself wove her into such a close proximity. The scar on his face looks clean, the olive skin makes the imperfection paler, and she thinks it's a small miracle he didn't lose his eye to such a wound. Ophilia swallows as she reaches up, lifting her fingers higher, higher, and ghosts her bare fingertips along his scar.

His cheek sinks into her palm. 

Therion's face isn't soft. The dust from Bolderfall and arid air has made him coarse. He isn't so rough he needs a whetting stone atop his skin but she wonders if he'd rebuff any offer to use her lotion. The longer she looks at his nose it appears more crooked, he probably broke it at some point. His lips are dry, parted and she notices then he's holding his breath again. 

"I-" Therion starts to say at a loss for words. A cluster of freckles dot the bridge of her nose like the stars on her creamy skin. Being out in the sun's brought them to her face. There's a stray hair calling out to him for his hand to brush behind her ear or coyly twirl. She draws her hand away before placing it on his mouth her palm brushing against his lips as she silences him. Her face is nearly as red as Primrose's clothes.

She wants to tell him he doesn't have to say anything. It's wrong for her to have kissed him, she's sure as she didn't ask to but she truly couldn't help it. Her breath hitches as she hears the Fool's Bangle. Startled when he draws her hand from his mouth she suddenly seems to realize he's only holding her hand. The warmth of her fingers practically set him on fire and he admires at the feeling of her dainty fingers encased by his calloused fingertips.

Chapped lips hover close to her hand. His breath tickles and he brushed the space between her knuckles and the joints of her fingers. Letting out a startled sound like a baby bird calling for its parents Ophilia stares down at him. Therion stares back up with his single eye clinging to her hand and wrist as he covers the back of her hand with feathery kisses. Brushing across the smooth skin of her knuckles and back of her hand he turns it over and catches her palm. Feeling her pulse quicken he climbs higher, peppering closer to her wrist and thinks her heart must be beating fast. At least as fast as his.

His chapped lips brush across her knuckles as he kisses the space between her knuckles and the joints of her fingers. Ophilia lets out a startled sound and he stares up at her hungrily with his single eye and his lips press against her fingertips before turning her hand over and kissing her palm. He feels her pulse quicken as he peppers chaste kisses against the newly exposed skin.

Ophilia's chest constricts and she trembles.

Therion's certain Ophilia's about to melt.

As he slides his fingers into the spaces between hers he promises himself he'll never let her go. She isn't frigid. She's far too warm to be made of ice and snow and he really does pity any of the sorry bastards in Flamegrace that are left without their rebellious lady's warmth. Her knees press into the dirt and she prays for courage as she leans forward. Therion waits for her either thoroughly enjoying Ophilia's willingness to kiss him or too stunned to do little more than stare at her. She yanks her hand back, clinging to his as she draws him closer to her. Tugging him like a puppet she captures his mouth with hers. Sermon filled lips caress his own and he has to bring himself back to earth.

Her mouth's searing hot and he can lose himself completely in it. Therion's nostrils flare and he sinks into her like boots in a snowdrift. He tilts his head and feels his heart wildly rattle inside him. He has to completely reign himself in from hollowing her shape into the ground and keep from bursting when he feels a tentative tongue poke along his lower lip. 

If Aelfric doesn't smite him, he might die on the spot.

Ophilia pulls away first. Red-faced as she shoots up from the ground, untangling herself from him, and looking for her staff Ophilia releases a ragged breath. Rigid as ever she clears her throat and keeps her back to him as though they've done nothing. She steps to the side as though she's been assaulted by hot coals and he notes her ears are pink once he stands. 

"Pray pardon," she says a little too loud as he hovers behind her. "I, well, you said I wished for something I take it. I fear I've been too forward."

Therion tucks her gloves in one of his pockets and wonders how long it will take for her to notice she's missing them. His lips burn. "Forget about it," he tries to sound aloof but realizes the words are airy, breathless, and he kicks himself for sounding like a maiden after her first kiss. "So do you kiss any guy that strikes your fancy?" Therion's question is rewarded with a quick playful smack of her staff against his shoulder. "Ow," he rubs his arm but smiles.

Therion's heart hammers as he tries to calm himself down. Ophilia begins to shepherd him back to the stream and he takes note of the spring in her step and coy way of keeping just a foot before her. He turns on his heel walking backwards with his hands tucked away beneath his poncho. There's a spring in his step too. "You know, you can take anything you want from me," he even smiles, his lips devilishly curving as he does his best to not lay it on too thick. "Or you could ask, Sister."

Ophilia holds her hand out. Her arm stiff as she motions at him with her fingers, "My handkerchief, please. I know you have it. I'd like it back, Lianna gave it to me." When his hand tugs her handkerchief free from its current home she smiles, satisfied by his compliance. Depositing it into her palm she turns back suddenly, her fingers curling around it, "Oh dear! I must have left my gloves in the flower patch. I must-"

"These gloves?"

Ophilia turns back to see him holding them up like a prized catch. She casts her handkerchief into the basket and reaches out for them only to have him tug them away.

"I like your hands," he almost kicks himself for the inane way that sounds but it's true. He loves each crease and curve from her cuticles to her fingertips. They're soft and precious and he wants to kiss them again. "So I don't think I'll give these back." He tugs them from her reach holding them high up before he ducks and buries them beneath his poncho. Her gloves are still warm. When it isn't from authorities he does enjoy a good run. "If you want them back so bad, you'll have to take them from me!" he crows and takes down the forest path.

"Therion!" she cries out. "You wicked thing!" she laughs and chases after him unsure if she should hold up her skirts or cast her staff to the wind. He leaps over the stream and turns when he sees her fumble. Without thinking about it he holds his hand out to her for her to take. Palm facing the sky he shudders when her warm hand pools into his and she clings to him.

Her staff knocks against his shoulder and when he turns to it she pulls her gloves from his hands draping them across her arm with her basket. "Hey-" he starts to say.

"They're mine," she warns as if to ward away the protest of "Those are mine" from him. His mouth clamps shut and a lopsided smile paints his face. He holds both his hands up in defeat as she victoriously sails passed him. "I think you're permitted to take things on some occasions but perhaps, it would be best to ask in others," she feels him fill the space beside her. Rough fingers brush her hair behind her ear as he then buries his hands beneath his poncho again breathing in the fresh air.

She bats her eyes at him and he feels his stomach flip. Therion turns away from her, red dusting his cheeks as he nods, "I'll have to try that sometime."

"Perhaps later?" Ophilia asks hopefully.

He's sure if he keeps close to his snowflake girl, she'll totally rob him of his lungs and air. She's already taken something else. He slips the basket from her arm and frees up her hand. She understands the signal and slips hers within his as his heart continues to beat twice as fast as before. He holds himself back from shivering when her thumb runs over his hand.

"Yes," he wonders if right outside of Clearbrook will constitute as "later" as he muses about the start of something new.


End file.
